A few weeks ago, I was thrilled to find four songbird eggs in a nest hidden in the weeds next to my strawberries. Not only was I excited about the possibility of watching four nestlings progress towards adulthood–as was Sage when I told him about them–but I felt exuberantly vindicated about my less than assiduous weeding.
Alas, the garden giveth, and the garden taketh away. It wasn’t much longer before all that was left was a forlorn and lonely nest–no eggs in sight.
Fortunately, Sage recovered quickly from the loss of his unrealized songbirds, but it wasn’t the end of our encounters with infant avians: A few weeks later, we found a baby bird on the road in front of the Bent and Dent.
I thought it was one of the homeliest little things I’d ever seen, with its bulging, oddly placed eyes and a shriveled worm at its feet, but Sage insisted it was cute and got indignant if I said anything to the contrary.
Cute or homely, though, the baby was in imminent danger of becoming a baby crepe with all the car and buggy traffic in the vicinity. I was reluctant to touch it, but I thought its odds would be greater if I moved it to the side of the road, so I did.
Sage and I completed our shopping and set off for home, leaving the baby huddled where we’d left it under a tree. We never saw it again, but we both fervently hope it fared better than the four eggs in the garden.
It just ain’t easy being a baby bird.